Fragments
by Blackadder261
Summary: A look at David Madsen before we knew him. The events that gave him his well-known paranoia and onset of his PTSD, and his efforts to cope with life in the year before he met Joyce.
1. Flashpoint

_Outskirts of_ _Fallujah_ _, Iraq. April 2007._

Sergeant Major David Madsen grimaced at the music some sick fuck in the unit was choosing to blast over the comms. As much as music was traditional on these road trips, he wasn't in the mood. He debated putting his ear defence on, before realising that it had comms built in and thus wouldn't get rid of the musical blasphemy. Damn.

He glanced out of the ballistic glass window of the Humvee he was riding shotgun in, its sill coated in the Arab dust and sand. The spring sun was still low in the sky, barely clearing the horizon. As much as David never had an eye for photography- hell, what kind of grunt did?- but the orange-red smudging of the sun as it peeled itself off the terrain would have made for an excellent shot. Close by this part of the route were a number of shanties, complete with corroded tin roofs and a number of children playing in the street.

It almost pained David to look at them sometimes. Every glance at them reminded him of another insurgent whose life he had claimed. As far as he could remember, the youngest life he had snuffed out was maybe eleven years old. He didn't remember the fact because he was proud of it, quite the opposite. He hated the fact that his job, his duty, now involved shooting dead kids. Kids who back stateside would only be mere fifth-graders. He shuddered as his mind attempted to shunt the image to the back of his mind.

He looked further across the landscape. A few burned out hulks of Iraqi MBTs lay in the desert, their light tan frames charred black from the heat and smoke of a few thousand machine gun rounds and several dozen tank shells burning up inside it. David's regiment had missed the opening moves of Iraqi Freedom, but his first tour about three weeks later saw his unit fight some of the Iraqi government forces. They could likely have made the SS look as though they were not fanatics.

He was rudely brought back into the present as the music changed from Springsteen's _'Born in the USA'_ changed to something which sounded something like their morning wake-up call, thanks to all of the mosques in the locality of the Base sent out their morning commandments to the populace for prayer.

 _Barra barra, hozd wel boghd ou zawara,_

 _B_ _arra barra, fezd wel lhozd ma bqa amene_

Madsen clicked the PTT actuator on his comms before unleashing an agitated barrage. Enough was enough, between his mind playing games with him and everything else he was having to weigh up. The music definitely didn't help.

"Alright, which one of you assholes is blasting that god-damn goat fucker music?"

A snicker followed as the responsible party clicked off the tape. "Lighten up, huh, Chief? We've three weeks left in the tour."

"That you again, Magowski? I swear I'm gonna have you on fuckin' latrine duty every day we're in camp until the end of tour now, dickwad," He growled. "And I do hpe you like the smell of Clorox. I'll give you fuckin' Chief."

A wry smile came to his face at the muttered curses were somewhat audible as the other end of the line cut. The convoy, formed of aroud a dozen Humvees with Ma Deuce mounts were escorting eight or nine FMTV trucks, destined for one of the transports that would be at Camp Al-Istiglal, otherwise known as Baghdad Airbase. The tour had been somewhat peaceful, with only a few minor contacts and only one man in the Company having been severely injured after a multiple-IED hit.

 _A damnsight better than the last tour._ David's mind flicked back to his previous T.O.D., where one contact in particular had been spectacularly brutal. Three of his boys had met their end that day, and not in a pleasant or painless way. No, two had been maimed by an IED, bleeding to death in agony as the remainder of the platoon was pinned down less than five feet away. David still couldn't erase the fading screams of agony, or the look of fear or pain on either soldiers' face, as it turned to one of calm. The calm of death. Nor would the smell of blood be erased, as it geysered from a severed femoral artery. Or, more accurately, the point where the femoral artery of one of the two realised that the leg it was supposed to supply no linger existed. David felt a shudder pass through him at the thought of that again. He doubted it'd ever leave his mind.

Nor would the death of the third soldier that day. The goat-fuckers had gotten themselves a mortar and engaged the Assembly Point. Five seconds later, and David would have been pasted by the shrapnel rather than the corporal that had emerged from behind the Bradleys IFV. David remembered being knocked backwards and lying on the ground screaming, as he could see nothing but red, and only heard a piercing ringing which dulled any other sound as though with a rubber wall between him and it. After a few moments, he realised that the it was not his, but the corporal's blood spattered across his goggles.

As he ripped them from his face and sat up, he saw the scorched ground where the man had stood not ten seconds earlier, with a red smear mixed with black scorching of the ground painting the sand and vehicles in a twenty foot radius. He could almost taste the blood that had ended up in his mouth, despite the incident being eight or nine months earlier.

He was snapped back to the present by the radio chatter, commonplace around this time on any convoy.

"Smokey 6-1, this is Raptor 4. Eyes in the sky report all clear from here to Marker 71, how copy?"

The gruff tones of Captain Markson were somewhat soothing to David. As wierd as that word sounded, even when it was thought rather than said, it was true. Even the mere sound of his voice over the radio or in your face during a firefight had the same effect on you as a lighthouse in a tempest. His voice resonated the sensation inside his men of reassurance, of _we're going to be fine._ For someone of rank such as a Captain, Markson had almost twice the combat experience of anyone else. His service record even rivalled that of David and a number of the senior NCOs. Desert Storm, Bosnia, Somalia, the War on Terror, now here. He knew virtually every trick in the book, and often threw the official handbook of regulations out the window. Hell, he wasnt even meant to be B.O.G. most of the time, instead intended to command from afar. But that wasn't his style. David had served under him as a Private back all those years ago, when Markson was fresh from West Point and a Platoon rather than Company Commander. His style of command had never changed, and it likely never would. That, David had surmised, was for the better.

"Good copy on your last, Raptor 4. How's the PX looking in Baghdad, over?"

"It's good here, boys. We'll keep a crate on ice for y'all. Raptor 4 out."

The earlier music being blasted through the comms was replaced by something a little more fitting, and far more tasteful in the eyes of most of the convoy's members.

 _Back in black, I hit the sack, It's been too long I'm glad to be back, yes I'm cut loose, from the noose, that's kept me hanging around_

Another smirk came over David's face at the whoops of joy and general behaviour of the other soldiers, gunner especially, in his Humvee. Amazing what a simple change of music could do. More amazing was that Magowski appeared to have some tiny inkling of musical taste.

 _Perhaps he's right, maybe I should lighten up._ _After all, I can get out after this tour, I've done more than enough for my country._

With that, David kicked back as best he could in the cramped confines of his vehicle and got some shut-eye before the convoy reached its destination.

His mind wandered again during his sleep, back to some of what he'd seen in Bosnia, after NATO had taken charge. One site they'd been tasked with securing was where some of the worse atrocities had taken place, the ethnic cleansing. The stench hit each man like a wall as they opened the doors of their vehicles. A number of men were overpowered, both soldiers and ICRC representatives who had came to verify the allegations of the unspeakable crimes committed.

They sure as hell got their proof.

The majority of David's squad were still recovering from their stomachs turning inside out, reducing their evening's fuel from the mess hall to an unceremonious splatter on the ground. The headlights of the numerous vehicles cast shadows everywhere, which played on the minds of everyone there. Madsen and his second-in-command staggered somewhat to the nearest obvious hole in the ground highlighted by the shadows from the lights behind them, all the while fighting the urge to vomit as the stench became ever more powerful as they approached the precipice.

A click of a maglite revealed the true extent of the horrors and the source of the stench, at least in part. Bodies with limbs missing, or at angles that were unimaginable for a live human. Flesh tainted green and black by the processes of the afterlife. Eyes that looked to be made of glass- those eyes which the crows had not yet touched, that is- and black, concealed blood coating numerous bullet or blade wounds to many.

David jolted slightly as the driver of his Humvee gave him a hard tap on the side of the shoulder, once again dragging his mind kicking and screaming back into 2007 rather than 1997.

"You usually like being awake around now Dave. You alright?"

David looked at him in a somewhat bleary way, a way which many would come to know David for doing in years to come.

"Yeah. Just Bosnia repeating on me. How far out are we?"

"Six minutes or so. We're going through the rough zone, so eyes up I guess."

David's brow furrowed slightly, as he noted a spike in radio traffic on the convoy battlenet. It wasn't normal at all, even by the standards of Iraqi Freedom and suchlike. Something didn't seem quite right, and his subconscious knew it. The streets, at this time of day usually crammed with locals, were deserted. Vehicles were abandoned everywhere. The rooftops had a few figures flitting about on them.

It dawned on him, just as the scream of his driver indicated it was too late.

"RPG!"

The driver slammed o the brakes as the warhead slammed into the side of the rear axle of the FMTV ahead of them, lifting it several feet off the ground in a massive shower of smoke and shrapnel.

The battlenet lit up with fear and confusion.

"WHERE DID THAT SOME FROM?"

"RIGHT SIDE, RIG-AAGH"

"SNIPER, LEFT SIDE ROOFTOP!"

The gunner above David swung his Ma Deuce left, raking the rooftop adjacent to them- now lined with insurgents- with fire. A split second later, another dull thud erupted below the Humvee, lifting it several feet into the air and flipping it onto its side. David was thrown against the driver, as he recovered from being dazed as his head clipped part of the gunner's station on the way across. The windscreen, normally capable of shrugging off small-arms, was shattered, with only a few fragments still in the frame. Madsen grabbed his rifle, now lying against the right door, secured his helmet strap and clambered through the gap in the windscreen, falling onto the dusty tarmac. As he got to his feet, taking cover against the side of his upturned and mangled vehicle, he caught a glimpse of the gunner, what was left of him. David couldn't tell how exactly it had happened- nor did he wish to know the fine points- but his legs were still in the station. His torso and upper body was lying in the road. Rounds were flying in every direction, as the FMTV next to David which had taken the inital hit now sat aflame. The chatter on the radio was barely audible to him, as his mind was clouded by an impenetrable ringing. An insurgent rounded the corner of the burning truck, rifle raised, in a demi-victorious pose. David's mind cleared in an instant, the ringing and sound of the raging firefight faded to a ghostly silence, as he drew on his sidearm and squeezed the trigger. The 9mm round tore through the centre of the boy's chest, killing him in an instant. His face a picture of shock, surprise, as he collapsed onto the ground, blood oozing out from beneath him.

He took up his rifle and begun moving along the street in an attempt to find someone else alive amid the mayhem. He did his best to drown out the sight of a number of corpses lying in the street, friendly and enemy, toward the centre of the mayhem. A punching sensation spun him round, knocking him to the ground. He glanced down ad his chest, seeing a red stain seeping out from a small hole in his vest, about two inches above his hip. He felt his body numbing somewhat, as more adrenaline kicked in to keep the likely agony of the wound from affecting him. In an alley to his left, a group of insurgents were marching along in a mob, weapons brandished to the sky, firing wildly. He spun his rifle across, clicking the safety to Burst and squeezing the trigger in a slick motion. a spray of bullets found their mark, taking out three insurgents in a moment. David sat up, repeating the process until the insurgents were either lying in the gutter dead, or running in the other direction. His muzzle dropped onto the ground as he collapsed backward, the blood loss from his earlier hit and a subsequent ricochet taking their toll. He stared at the blackened sky, as his vision dimmed, before the world went black, and David was no longer aware of his surroundings. Not the gunfire, the turboshaft engines and whirring minguns above, not the shouts of commands or screams for medics.


	2. Road to Nowhere

_Ft Carson, CO. October 2007._

It was three months after 4th ID's return from Iraq. David couldn't remember the majority of what had happened between that ambush and the present. He could recall awakening in Al-Istiglal's med centre with a wound dressing to his right side and an IV drip in his arm. He'd seen in passing the list of those who'd been less lucky. Sixteen names, three he knew.

 _PFC Hasman_.

 _CPL Meyes_.

 _CPT_ _Markson._

David couldn't believe it for a moment. The man had been damn near indestructible, surviving carbomb after IED, across three continents. Only for some fucking asshole to cap him here and now.

He'd gone off the rails. Or so he thought. Every night he'd awaken to see one of the three sat on the chair in his room. Occasionally, it'd be someone else. The first team-mate he'd ever seen shot, right next to him at that, put down by a 7.62 through the side of the temple. The guy who stepped into oblivion as an RPG landed at his feet as he went to cross a street. The wordt part for David was that as the exchanges between him and his visitor continued, he'd notice... changes. Gradually, their skin would pale, blacken. Blood, lacerations, across the face. And then, it would happen again.

 _The smell of cordite permeating his sense of smell as the Humvee flipped._

 _The whizzing and pinging of a thousand metal hornets, each hunting its own target._

 _The remains of the poor bastard manning the turret._

He was there again. The street where life as he had come to know it fell apart. The minute before, listening to the chatter between the other guy in the back and the gunner up top. Then, a dull thud and a whipping sound, as a sensation like being stabbed with a burning poker lit up his side.

He'd jolted awake again and again, cursing as he realised that it was another bad dream. Wasn't it?

The flight home had been somewhat torturing as well. The charter had been redirected from the usual flight path, so instead of going straight back Stateside it had gone via Geilenkirchen in Germany, before flying onward to RAF Mildenhall in Britain. Needless to say, the turbulence jolting the charter plane around hadn't made him feel any better. Rekindling things which had been dormant in the back of his mind for decades.

The medical staff hadn't been much better toward him once he returned home. Straight off for medical assessments, in an almost endless procession.

"You know the procedure." Towards the end, the medical staff knew David so well that they could probably have told him his own life story.

"Madsen, David. Sergeant Major, 541-39-3926."

The shrink that had been assigned to David leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

"Test result are back. Not good, I'm 'fraid."

David could remember the sensation of his expression, of shock. "Not good?"

The shrink shook his head again. "Not in the slightest. You'll live, but as far as Uncle Sam's concerned, your days of kicking ass for the stars and stripes are over."The words had been like bullets, almost. David could still remember how it had felt. He had nothing, outside of his parents and the _Iron Horse-_ as many had come to call 4th Division- he had nothing. Not even a home, that had received its foreclosure before David had gone on this last deployment.

The shrink then explained the basics to him. "It's something called PTSD, or Post-Traumatic Stress. It's a surprise it's taken this long to affect you, honestly: the shit you'll have seen shoulda broken you years ago. Still, it's the present that's our concern. The bad dreams you've had these past months won't go away, and they may get worse. Your constant looking over your shoulder is another textbook symptom. That's much the same."

The shrink handed him an envelope. "There, the CO sorted this out for ya. Best of luck."

David's heart had nearly stopped as he opened the envelope, reading the reference code. _DD-214. Discharge Papers._

That, naturally, brought him to the present. Stood outside the gates of Carson, his duffel bag over one shoulder, keys and '214 in the other. He'd made his decision: he was going West. As far from any base as he could, as they'd just bring back the worst of his mind. Oregon sounded good to him at this stage. He slung his duffel onto the passenger seat, before starting up the engine with a roar and heading west.

* * *

AUTHOR ENDNOTE

I'm aware this is about a third of the length of the previous chapter, however I felt that it's right to leave it at this length. Additionally, I've only really one more chapter in mind before I move on and start work on my next story. More details on that at the end of the next chapter.

Again, while I'm acutely aware that few have decided to peek closer at David's life between ending service and meeting Joyce, I felt it somewhat... appropriate.

B.


	3. Two Whales, a drunk and eternal moment

_November 27th,_ _2008_.

David jumped awake once again. He'd been sleeping in the car rather than hotels for about two months now, and the sound of the rain drumming on the steel roof wasn't doing him any favours. Regardless, it was a better night's sleep than any motel. They were far too much of a reminder of former quarters- namely his former billet at Carson- and the rooms were all the wrong layout. The bed was close to the window, and there were alcoves everywhere. Plenty of places for a potential attacker to hide.

Again, that was something David had noticed. All the time, he was checking over his shoulder. Anticipating an attack that never came. It happened almost everywhere and without warning: the chill down his spine of instinct, as his mind and body screamed an alarm. And every time, he would snap around in the blink of an eye to react... yet nothing was ever there. The doc had said this could happen and David knew it. He just hadn't expected it to be as bad as this. It happened when driving, sitting in diners trying to eat, even when having a wash of a morning. It was torture in itself, spending every living moment constantly looking over your shoulder. Seeing things in the shadows that weren't there, never being able to stay in a room with his back to the doors or windows.

He threw the jacket he'd used as a blanket for the night onto the passenger seat before glancing out through the windshield. The first rays of light were just appearing over the horizon as the shower of the night cleared. It had taken a lot longer than intended to reach Oregon, on account of money being somewhat tight, so his car had become almost like a home on wheels- if a little cramped- while his pension from Uncle Sam combined with the odd bit of help from his folks ensured he didn't end up in a gutter. Or worse, a VA institution.

He turned the key in the ignition slot, once again hearing the engine splutter into life, before pulling out of the layby onto the highway. On the way across, he'd been finding out about various towns on the coast, and had settled on one in particular. It was a little place by the name of Arcadia Bay: some had said it was something of a shithole, fucked up by the Prescott family over the course of a few decades; others had mentioned that it was out of the way. It was about two hours outside of Portland, and to David's knowledge there were less traces of the U.S. military here than Iran.

 _Perfect._

He flicked a look at the map, taped to the steering wheel for the time being. Given how quiet the roads were, he'd make the Bay in time for breakfast. Good thing too, as the various truckers he'd ended up swapping information with in the various diners between Colorado and here had said something about a diner in this town. The Two Whales: a name reflecting the past of the place before the aforementioned fucking-up of everything by the Prescotts. From what he'd heard from those heading back East, the food was second to none there. Sure, they said, it was a little dilapidated, but what did it matter if the place was run-down? Good food and a good atmosphere. Hopefully, more than enough to help David make some kind of merge into normalcy post-discharge.

The headlights coming the other way set something off in David's head. The lights of the various vehicles arriving at that burial site in Serbia. The night patrol in the desert in '91 that was interrupted by an Illume and a hail of gunfire.

David jolted and slung the steering wheel hard right as he hit the reflector strips bordering the edge of the asphalt, the tyres complying with a drawn-out squeal. The tail of the car slung out as the frame tried to keep up with the remainder of the car. A split second later everything was back under wraps, albeit that David's pulse was throbbing through his head.

 _Fuckin' great. Survive warzones and get thrown outta the Army, only to almost kill myself in a car._

He had, however, managed to calm down and focus on getting to Arcadia Bay without being in a bodybag. Just putting as many of these shit reflections and flashbacks to the hellholes into the back of the mind. Plenty of time to mull it over and drown it with something when he got to his intended destination, preferably intact. A matter of ten minutes or so later, he achieved just that.

The town itself seemed an okay place to be, save for the state of disrepair that was no doubt a spiral of decline after the fiasco over the docks, and holy hell was the view out here good. The cloud cover from the Pacific was somewhat , but the sun was breaching it in a narrow sliver where the clouds didn't quite meet the sea, producing a pattern of crimson-orange rays. The lighthouse, perched on a narrow headland overlooking the bay, was sillhouetted and Highlighted by a rogue ray all at once. The beach was somewhat scruffy, visible even from the main route through, but even it looked idyllic to some degree or another. Imperfect, and yet... perfect.

Indeed, some areas of the town looked loke a ruralised version of the Detroit Suburbia, but the remainder of town more than made up for these minor shortcomings. No place on Earth was perfect, although Arcadia Bay seemed closer to perfection on the surface than any place he'd been through so far.

The parking lot was empty, making parking less of a problem. Most of the residents of this somewhat sleepy town would probably not be out of bed for at least another hour or so, and the truckers would likely not be traversing this route for some time yet, assuming that they hadn't eaten at the truckstops where they typically lived out their nights. Still, it meant peace and quiet, in which to eat and convalesce about how exactly to approach the next phase of his plan ifor the future. Getting here had been relatively easy, ignoring the near-crash ten minutes ago, but that was where any sense of strategy ended.

He half-lumbered, half staggered up the steps and through the door. The counter was somewhat empty, with only a local cop grabbing a coffee and a couple of diner staff there. He found a booth with a line of sight on each door and sat down. At which point his mind went into overdrive, with a sensation like having a pressure brace applied across his temples.

"Can I help you, sir?" The voice of the woman who had been behind the counter and was now stood next to him startled him. He looked up from his somewhat half-dead position. In the morning glow of the sun coming through the window next to him, she looked almost angelic, the light accentuating her blonde hair and every feature of her face.

"Um.. yeah, a cooked breakfast and a black coffee, please."

"You got it." The waitress' smile spoke volumes to David. It seemed that he was the first customer she'd dealt with in who knows how long who knew what basic manners were. Shame, she looked like she'd had enough to deal with in life _without_ assholes like those who frequented diners to deal with.

On cue, one such individual sauntered through the door, a young-looking girl with a darker blonde- more of a brown- hair, wearing a black hoodie and a battered pair of jeans and brown hair. She was in the diner for maybe a minute, or ninety seconds, but David could hear nothing but a heated back-and-forth between the waitress and the young girl before the latter stormed out of the door again. Unusual behaviour, in some ways, but he thought nothing more of it as the cooked breakfast and black coffee arrived at his table.

"Here you are sir, enjoy your food."

"Thanks." David started. "By the way, if yo don't mind my asking, who was that girl who came in and gave you trouble?"

"Oh, you saw that?" The waitress chuckled slightly, although David could see that something else was beneath the exterior humour. "That would be my daughter. She's... like that sometimes. You staying in town long?"

"Er, yes, actually. Figured I'm gonna settle down here, I left the army about six months ago and since then, I've been looking for a place to call home. I think I've found it here. David's the name."

"Joyce. Well, it's been a pleasure meeting you, David." With that, David turned his attention to the food in front of him and began eating. By god, the hearsay about this diner was absolutely correct! For a diner, this food could probably have put the Hilton to shame. As David pondered this, a drunkard staggered through the door and plonked himself onto one of the stools at the counter, before subjecting Joyce- poor woman- to a tirade of abuse.

"Hey, I'll have my usual while you're at it!"

"No sir. Until you've payed your bills from the _last_ time you ate here and didn't pay up, you're getting fresh air and nothing else!"

"Bitch, I said _I'll have my usual_!"

David sighed as he weighed up the options, before deciding that only one would do. This waitress- Joyce- didn't deserve this shit, especially not from some pissed-up and self-righteous asshole. He stood up, making his way toward the drunk.

"Is there _any_ need for that kinda behaviour, in a diner of all places? Seriously, all folks want in here is peace and quiet.", David intervened.

"The fuck does it have to do with you? The bitch isn't giving me my fucking food!"

" _THAT_ would be because you haven't paid up. You wanna eat here, you pay up, like any other decent person."

The drunk had completely lost interest in harassing Joyce, now standing and squaring up to David. David wasn't in the slightest bit fazed: as bad a memory as it was and still raw now, this had been a daily part of his life for twenty or so years with overconfident soldiers who'd needed putting back in their places. One drunk was nothing.

"The fuck you trying to say? You wanna fight?"

"Hardly, I'd rather eat in peace. You've two options: either pay up and start _acting_ like a civilised human being, or go find yourself somewhere to eat."

David braced himself for a fight as the drunk appeared to wind up to charge-mode. Fortunately, this petered out, and the drunk stormed out of the diner with yet another hail of abuse aimed at the pair of them.

"That...that's about the nicest thing anyone's done for me in a long time." Joyce was somewhat stunned: not only had this newcomer, David, managed to deal with the local drunken prick and spared her from the usual trouble; but had also done so _without_ causing a brawl in the middle of the Two Whales.

"Well, ma'am, I just figure you deserve better than to have to spend the day putting up with people like that. He always like that?"

"Oh yes. That's the third time I've had that kinda abuse this week, but I doubt he'll be back, after how you've seen him off."

"In which case, I suppose I'd better clear his debt. After all, it's the least I can do for such a nice place and excellent service. And the pleasure... of meeting you, I guess."

Twenty minutes later, having finished his food, paid his-and the drunk's- bill and conversed somewhat with Joyce, David walked out of the diner and headed back to his car. As he sat into the driver's seat, he took another look at the receipt, realising that there was something written on the back as well as the normal receipt-type information on the front.

* * *

 _It was an honour having you in the diner._

 _Nice to know that gentlemen still exist. Love to talk again with you soon._

 _BTW, the name's Joyce, if you forgot :)._

* * *

David smiled, as he lowered the sun-visor and slotted the receipt neatly into a small holder usually meant for CDs or similar.

The rest, as they say, is history.


	4. Endnotes, Upcoming Story Teaser

Author endnotes

Well, I've decided to create a chapter that consists mainly of notes regarding details with this story. As much as it's typically against guidelines, I felt it was necessary due to the sheer number of things that I haven't explained that aren't strictly canonical.

Firstly, I've had to take liberties where David's age is concerned: his looks to me put him in the late forties, though I could be wrong as I was judging this from my stepdad who bears strikong semblance to David (no, my name isn't Chloe and I don't live in Oregon), giving him a D.O.B. of sometime in the 1960s.

Second, I selected the 4th Infantry as it seemed logical. Don't ask why, but the photograph that Max uncovers in canon sees David wearing equipment I would typically associate with Infantry personnel. Again, I could be wrong and will happily accept any correction, but it seemed the likeliest choice. Also, 4ID is based at Ft Carson, CO, as I put in the story. This was the only major garrison I had found that included personnel who deployed on foreign combat assignments and that was within driving range of where I believe Arcadia Bay would be: around the location of Bay City, OR, as the coords from David's files in-game point. There _is_ an installation near Portland, however from what I could uncover this was only a weapons repository.

Third, the details surrounding David and Joyce's first meeting are what I had surmised as the likeliest scenario: David, despite how you meet him in both Life is Strange and Before the Storm, he strikes me as someone who would do the honourable thing. And what better opportunity for the pair to meet properly than to stand up and defend Joyce having only just met her?

Anyway, I'll conclude my explanations there and move knto the teaser for my upcoming story, which I am going to start writing by the end of the week and which the first chapter should be up this side of Christmas.

As always, hope you enjoyed the story.

B.

TEASER: [AS YET UNTITLED]

The sharp crack of the handgun reverberating around the tiled bathroom deafened Chloe. Her body was numb, but her brain knew that she was dead before she hit the floor. A 9mm to the chest at point-blank would do that. As her head clattered against the tiled floor, its dingy white stained by an ever- increasing crimson pool. The last thing that her subconscious registered before the last connections between brain and eyes failed was a figure, sat, slumped almost, against the far end of the stalls, sobbing quietly.

 _Max..._

Chloe's sight gave out with a blinding white as her hearing slurred with a bang as the bathroom door was kicked in.

Chloe snapped upright, finding herself in a white room. Not the surgical white of an Operating Theatre, nor the dingy white of that bathroom. No, this was something else. She stood up and faced what appeared to be a porthole. Her eyes widened as she saw what it beheld, as it moved in slow motion. Her body, lying motionless in a pool of blood with a gunshot wound. Nathan Prescott frantically trying to provoke some response from her, still unable to believe what he had just done. Just out of his sight, where Chloe had seen her... sat Max. The pool forming on the floor tore at Chloe's heart. Yet at the same time, the emotion of heartbreak at seeing Max so distraught was countered by those of abandonment. And anger.

"You were in there Max. You could've done something. Why the fuck didn't you do something?" She screamed at the image, shaking with anger, and to a somewhat lesser extent sadness. There was so much she wanted to say to Max- admittedly, most of it not polite- and now that opportinity would never arise.

Tears were pooling in Chloe's eyes. She hadn't cried like this since her Dad's funeral.

"I still believed you cared, Max. But...you never did...did you? You fucking let me die!"

"Wrong again, shit-for-brains!" Chloe jumped at both the voice behind her, and the sound of the approaching footsteps. A hollow clunking, not like trainers but not like a prosthetic. She turned to face the approaching unknown. She gasped as her mind fully registered the details.


	5. Author Note

**AUTHOR NOTE**

 **Well, folks, I suppose it was going to be the case some day or other, but today is that day.**

 **Effective immediately, I'll be moving my activity over to AO3. I've already set up shop there and got a few stories up and running, and my aim is to have all the LiS stories moved across by the end of the week. Overwatch stories which I've written will be staying here permanently.**

 **I'll still check this account periodically for the sake of correspondence as I'm not as ignorant as some would make out. I'll also be on here to read stories based here anyway, the only change being that no further upsates will be made.**

 **Why, you may ask? Well, despite a lack of a mobile app and a shorter store time for draft chapters, I find AO3 is somewhat easier to use.** **Formatting tools are up to more, the general editing mode is slicker and it'seasier for me to keep track of reviews and feedback**

 **Find my account** **under the same name as this account, Blackadder261.**

 **Until next time, guys.**

 **P.S: This is a standardised message across all existing stories. All stories, complete or otherwise, will remain in their current state.** **All unfinished stories will be retagged as incomplete so as to avoid provoking any issues.**


End file.
